minute, and the plan was to celebrate at Fantin-Latour, Hong Kong’s newest, most exclusive nightclub.
She’d been born in the harbor below exactly thirty-five years ago that night on board a junk that smelled of fish guts, rotting wood and wet rope. It had been the Year of the Dragon, the luckiest and most powerful of signs. And like the mighty dragon, which begins life in the narrow confines of the soupy egg, Alex had emerged from damp, humble beginnings to conquer her world.
Now, she had luxury homes in London, New York and Eleuthera, as well as this sprawling penthouse in the coveted residential sector high above Hong Kong. It wasn’t so long ago that Chinese hadn’t been permitted to live on the Peak, but the timing of Alex’s life was as lucky as her sign. Schooling for young Chinese girls had become mandatory when she was a child, and she’d gone on to win scholarships at the London School of Economics. Afterward, she’d worked as an assistant to one of the leading British bankers in Hong Kong. When rule of the colony had reverted to China, she’d been in a prime position to strike out on her own, acting as go-between for western businesses looking for profit in the emerging modern China with its billion eager consumers.
Alex’s ancestors had been fishermen and noodle makers, but she was on a first-name basis with British lords, American senators and international businessmen, with whom she was often photographed in the U.S. and European press. Her helpful introductions to leaders in the People’s Republic led to lucrative commercial contracts for these influential Westerners. In return, she used her charm, as well as other incentives, to convince them to support trade accords and political treaties to Beijing’s advantage. If those incentives sometimes included a financial donation or the passing of a secret gleaned in pillow talk with an influential friend…well, that was part of the business, too. In return for her efforts, Alexandra Kim Lee received the grateful largesse of Beijing and foreign businessmen alike—very grateful. Bank presidents from Zurich to the Cayman Islands were on her speed dial, and they took her calls personally.
Turning away from the railing and the stunning view of the city below, Alex reached up and lifted her silken black hair off pale, bare shoulders. The sun had set nearly an hour ago, but the air was still muggy and very warm. She lit a few sticks of fragrant sandalwood incense and set them in sand-filled brass dishes around the terrace to discourage those few hardy mosquitoes who might venture up to this altitude. Down in the harbor on a hot summer evening like this, fishermen would be shirtless, skin glistening with sweat as they prepared their nets for the night run. But up here among the Peak’s green spaces, soft breezes carried delicate scents of jasmine, honeysuckle and orange blossom from well-tended terrace gardens.
The air stirred now, cooling Alex’s body, naked under a lucky red silk Versace gown. The gossamer thin dress dipped low in front and back, held at her shoulders by the sheerest of filaments that looked as if they might give way at any second. Like Alex herself, their apparent fragility was deceptive.
If she looked closely enough in the mirror, she could see the beginnings of a few lines around her eyes and mouth, yet it was a common occurrence still to hear the squeal of rubber heels behind her as men stopped dead in their tracks to stare when she passed by. More important than beauty, though, she had brains, and what little was lost in looks was more than gained back in experience, connections and poise. She was probably at the peak of her operational effectiveness right now. She estimated that she had five, maybe eight good years left before the advantages afforded by her appearance began to dim. It was unfair that a woman’s career should be shortened like that. Still, by the time her run was done, Alexandra calculated, she would have earned an extremely comfortable retirement.
Tonight, though, was an occasion to forget about business. Tonight belonged to her.
She peered once more over the filigreed-iron railing. City traffic sounded distant, muted in the steamy night air, but far below in the circular drive, a white limousine was gliding up to the building’s front entrance. The blue-uniformed doorman rushed out to open the limo’s back door, and as the passenger emerged, a hint of a smile touched the edges of Alex’s crimson-painted lips.
When the door chime sounded a few minutes later, her maid emerged from the kitchen to answer it. Alex turned away from the city lights, leaning against the terrace’s wrought-iron railing to face the richly furnished living room. The back of her silk dress draped to the cleft of her buttocks, and when the metal railing touched her bare skin, a shiver ran up her spine as if a shadow had passed over her grave. But then the maid opened the heavy, carved mahogany front door, and in spite of Alex’s momentary chill of apprehension, a musical laugh escaped her lips. He was such a poseur, this one.
Dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, he stood in the doorway, one elbow propped up against the door-frame, ankles crossed casually, doing his best Cary Grant, sophisticate-about-town imitation. In one arm, he clutched a sterling silver ice bucket with carved jade handles. Two champagne flutes dangled precariously, upside down, their flimsy stems threaded between the fingers of his other hand.
He glanced around in confusion for a second, seeking her out on the deep, tufted sofas and then over by the marble fireplace mantle. Every highly polished surface in the room held dense arrangements of birthday roses and lilies sent by less favored admirers, many of whose invitations she’d turned down in order to spend her special night with him.
When he finally caught sight of her out on the terrace, he grinned and strode across gleaming cherry wood floors. It was Dom Perignon in the silver bucket, she noted, tiny beads of condensation on the black bottle sparkling under the soft overhead lights. The exquisite flutes dangling between his fingers looked like Baccarat crystal.
Behind him, the maid remained at the entrance, staring, her mouth as open as the still yawning door. She was new, not yet accustomed to the kind of men Alexandra entertained. Still, you’d think the fool had never seen a man in a tuxedo before.
“Shut the door,” Alex snapped in Cantonese. “Then go back to the kitchen.”
“Oh, yes, madam! So sorry.” The maid closed the door with a soft click of the latch, then shuffled away on slippered feet.
Alex turned her attention back where it belonged, on this silly, adorable, handsome man, as he leaned down to give her a kiss.
“Happy birthday, darling,” he said.
He was almost a foot taller than she, and trimly built. Still, her small body and his large one fit together very nicely, she thought. He was quite a decent dancer, too. They would make a striking couple out on the floor at Fantin-Latour.
“You look good enough to eat,” he added.
“Yes, please,” she said demurely.
His grin widened. “Bad girl. Later. First, champagne, then dinner. After that, we’ll see what else we can do for you.”
He set the flutes on one of the low, glass patio tables. When he uncorked the bottle and poured the bubbles into the thin crystal, Alex pretended not to see the blue Tiffany box peeking out of his tuxedo jacket pocket. It didn’t do to show too much excitement over such things or men might think you could be bought like some thoroughbred race horse—or worse, Kowloon whore. And Alexandra Kim Lee was certainly not that. She was a businesswoman, first, foremost and always.
He handed her one of the glasses, and the flutes chimed softly as the rims touched. “Many happy returns of the day, Alexandra.”
“Thank you.” She took a sip, savoring the perfect bubbles. Then she glanced over the rail once more. “Your car didn’t wait?”
“I told the driver to park off to the side. Our reservation is for nine o’clock. I hope you don’t mind not
